Part of me wants to walk over to the window and view we share, but I don’t. I will myself to stay exactly where I am, counting off the differences I noticed. One simple hair cut rattles me to the core.
I definitely need to figure out his name, find out what he does, and adjust my workout schedule so I don’t bump into him again.
I think.
I spend the rest of the night dreaming about him. And his stupid, gorgeous haircut.
He’s vivid as he follows me through endless dreams. His presence is so real, so tangible that it’s hardly a surprise when I find my hands down the front of my panties, chasing his imagined touch. I keep myself in a semi-conscious state, my fingers moving on their own, rubbing slow circles until I’m whimpering my release into the pillow.
Chapter Ten
TALLY
The next few shifts at work are nothing stand out. The only notable difference is it’s just me and Walsh. Johnny is absent. And there’s nothing more said about the offer for more work.
Not that we have much time to stand around and chat. With one staff down each shift, it’s busy, and the hours fly by.
Saturday, though, is by far the craziest day. Apparently, it’s the usual crowd on game day. Around mid shift, Walsh explains how every year, the pub televises the games throughout the season. They even get council permission to change their opening times when the big-name clubs are playing away games.
The Irish love their football, but it’s a pretty general statement unless you’ve seen their passion firsthand. There was a line even before we opened the doors, at the crack of dawn too.
Despite the early hour, I pull pint after pint and deliver so many plates of the specials of the day—bangers and mash with gravy—it gets to the point I can’t even look at the plates withoutfeeling queasy. Admittedly, though, I pull a full thirteen-hour shift.
“Tally, do a rubbish run, and then you can finish up,” Walsh calls from his chair.
He’s been pretty good at helping, but he’s also spent a fair amount of time from his place at the bar, watching me run around like a headless chicken. At least the task of doing the bins gets me outside in the fresh air and away from the kitchen.
To stretch out the time, I do all the bins, taking my time replacing the bags and collecting all the trash until I’ve got a decent pile stacked up near the back door. Grabbing the key off the hook, in case the door shuts on me like it did on my second shift, I start carrying the bags to the dumpster on the far side of the carpark. Although there are lights around the place, there are plenty of shadows too.
I’m close to finishing when the girls I ran out of the pub earlier in the week decide to make themselves known. The instant I stepped outside with the first bag, I knew I wasn’t alone, and I had a feeling it was them.
Not knowing when they were going to act is why I was only carrying one bag at a time. Just in case they want to fight, which is apparently their intent, judging by the cold anger in their eyes.
I make my way closer to where they stand, keeping myself in the best offensive position.
“You remember us?” One of them speaks while the other starts moving.
They’re surrounding me, and it’s hard to stop it from happening. I don’t want to be trapped against a wall, so I make it easy by stopping where I am, putting myself in the best position.
It’s pretty clear they came here intent on showing me exactly how unhappy they were with me throwing them out. It’s a smackdown, hopefully nothing more.
“Come on then, let’s do it,” I taunt, bouncing on my feet.
The women are both Betas. Their individual scents are lost under the cheap perfume they use. But their designation is easy to read in their size. And their speed. They move together and come for me at the same time.
Just because they’re Betas doesn’t mean their hits don’t hurt. I cop a punch to the head and a hit to the side at the same time. Pain bursts, making stars dance and making it hard to track their movements.
Our altercation is fast. It’s messy on their side, while on mine, I’m trying to tame my training down into something a waitress would have. Eventually we get into a rhythm where we manage to dodge hits and land a few too. Of course, they’ve both come prepared. And while I’m thankful I’m only dealing with shitty oversized rings, I’m glad they haven’t donned knuckle dusters or worse, another switchblade like they had the other day.
I kick one of them in the knee, and she goes down, squealing like a cut pig. I turn to the other, hoping she takes a decent hit, too, when the back door pushes open. The interruption and the possibility of other people joining the fight has the two of them bolting down the side of the building, yelling promises of more over their shoulder.
“Jesus, Tally, you ‘right?” one of the kitchen hands asks, rushing over to help.
“Yeah, yeah,” I manage before having to brace my hands on my knees to get air into my lungs. The adrenaline burning through my veins makes it harder to breathe. I’m jittery, and I squeeze my eyes shut to quieten the rush in my ears.
I take a couple of slow inhales and exhales, quietly assessing what hurts the most. I’m sure I’m going to have a bruised face and a sore side for a while.
As I stand up, more people join us, including a couple of the regulars from the bar who asking me a hundred questions.
